man-hours it took to compile the pages I held in my hands. Why would I need to know that working in his office was a junior partner named Sam Goodwin? That Michael frequently ate his lunch alone at The Olive Garden? That the route he took to get to the cleaners involved a shortcut on Romero Street? But the answer was obvious . . . so I, as the assassin assigned the task of killing Michael Folio, would best be able to plan my attack and my escape. Since I know that when he finishes his meal at The Olive Garden, eighty-seven percent of the time he uses the bathroom on his way out the door, I could plan to wait and ambush him in the men’s room stall. Since I know that he hasn’t spoken to his niece and nephew in seven years, I could pretend to be a friend of theirs and “bump” into him next to the dry cleaners. Gain his trust and get invited into his home. The possibilities were endless, but only because I had this file Vespucci had meticulously labored over.
That’s when the addiction began. I studied those pages as though I was reading scripture, each line read and read and read again until Michael Folio’s life was committed to memory. I found myself thinking of little else, waiting for the phone to ring.
WE were eating lunch when I saw him. Jake had ordered breadsticks and salad and was picking away through her meal, while I was waiting on the pasta I had ordered.
“I’d like you to come home with me for the holidays,” she said, looking at me through the tops of her eyes.
“I thought you weren’t interested in seeing your fa mily.”
“I didn’t think I was. And I don’t know why, but they
“Why wouldn’t I want to go?”
She smiled. “I don’t know. I just assumed you wouldn’t want to . . .”
“You still don’t have me figured out, do you?” I said.
“Every time I think I do, you throw me a curveball.” She settled into her food again, and I looked at the door, and that’s when I saw him. Michael Folio. The man from the envelope. The man who was going to die as soon as Vespucci gave the word. He waited at the hostess stand, then held up one finger, and the hostess nodded and led him toward a booth halfway between the bathroom and the table where Jake and I sat. I had purposely picked a table so I could sit with my back to the wall. That way, I would have a view of the entire restaurant.
Jake started talking again, but I didn’t hear what she was saying because a buzzing nested in my ear as I watched Michael Folio—not just a picture on top of a sheet of paper but a living and breathing human being. He sat down and studied his menu.
Jake turned her head to see what had gotten my attention. She probably thought I was staring at a woman, but when she saw a man in a suit and tie, she said, “You know him?”
I shook my head. “What?”
“That man . . . you looked at him like you knew him.”
“Did I?” I laughed. “I blanked out wondering where the hell my food was.”
That did the trick. She went back to talking about her family, and my food arrived, and I twirled the noodles around my fork and tried to concentrate, but every few seconds my eyes drifted to the breathing dead-man seated alone in the middle of the restaurant.
Finally, I excused myself and walked toward the bathroom. I had to pass by his booth on the way, and I glanced down at him as I went, but he didn’t notice. He was reading a copy of
Inside the bathroom, I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to get my body to stop shaking. This was a new sensation; I felt electric, like a brewing storm. I splashed some water on my face, was rubbing my eyes, when the door to the bathroom opened.
I half-expected to see Michael Folio come through the door; in fact, I had planned my trip to the bathroom to coincide with the waitress bringing him his bill. But instead of Folio, it was Vespucci’s large figure who shuffled through the door. His eyes glowered at me, like they wanted to pick me up and throw me across the room.
“What’re you doing?” he spat in a hushed tone.
“Nothing. I—”
“You were to do
“I’m doing my homework, in case you called.”
“Homework? Don’t bullshit me.”
“That’s all I was doing.”
“Who’s the girl?”
“What? She’s just a girl I know.”
“You like her?”
“She’s just a girl, Mr. Vespucci.”
“We’ll talk about this later. Pay your bill and go home.”
I knew this was not open for discussion. I nodded, shimmied past him, and headed back to the restaurant. As I passed Folio’s booth, I noticed he was gone. Jake looked at me concerned as I approached our table.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m not feeling well.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you think it was the pasta?”
“I don’t know. We just need to go.”
She stood up, sympathy on her face. “You just head to the car. I’ll get the check.”
She drove me home while I pretended to feel queasy. It wasn’t difficult, since I was thinking about how upset Vespucci had been, how his eyes had flashed when he entered the bathroom. She dropped me off and I protested against her coming in with me . . . saying I needed to be alone and get this worked out. Reluctantly, she let me go, and I noticed it was several minutes before her car moved away from the curb.
VESPUCCI didn’t come that night, or the next day, or the second night. I talked to Jake a couple of times and told her it was nothing but a stomach flu, that I would be fine, that I just felt weak and begged off meeting up with her for a few days. She wanted to take care of me, and I think she was saddened that I refused her succor. I think this might have raised the first questions in her mind as to where our relationship was going.
I more or less had the radio on all day, just background noise to keep me company as I waited. Which is why at first I didn’t process the report about the litigator who had been shot while sitting at his desk on the fifth floor of the Meadows Office Complex in the northern part of the city. The reporter’s words were just a dull hum when the name “Michael Folio” broke through the clutter. I leapt up like I was on fire and raced to the radio, turning the volume up as loud as it would go. The reporter was talking about another D.C. sniper, right here in Boston. Police were speculating that the bullet must have come from a neighboring rooftop and had caught the litigator just above his right ear as he sat reading a briefing at his desk. His assistant had heard the sound of glass shattering and had rushed to his office, only to find him lying facedown on his desk in a pool of his own blood. There was no more news at this time.
Just then, my door opened and Vespucci showed himself inside. He nodded at the radio, “You heard?”
I nodded back.
“Who was the girl?”
“A girl I’ve been seeing.”
“Get rid of her.”
“Why?”
“Don’t ask me why. You know why without me telling you.”
He dropped a new envelope on my counter and sat down on top of a bar stool.
“Mr. Vespucci . . . what I do on my own time is my business . . . now I don’t mind—”
